


Boundaries

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Kinks, M/M, amtdi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alien High Priest makes them do it. This was for the AMTDI challenge, finished way too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> _Rodney using all his weight on top of him, holding John down. Or closing his hands around John's wrists a little too long, pinning them to the bed above his head while they're kissing._

_"I draw circles and sacred boundaries about me; fewer and fewer climb with me up higher and higher mountains.—I am building a mountain chain out of ever-holier mountains."_ —Friedrich Nietzsche

  
The High Priest demands it of him personally in low tones, his face harsh and uncompromising, and the long, stained knife of his acolyte is edged up to Teyla's throat. God, the expression on her face—afraid for John, not for herself. And so goddamned brave.

Rodney's hands are moving, moving, garbled words tumbling from his mouth in increasing hysteria, uncomprehending—he doesn't _understand_ , the Wraith, for God's sake, they kill, they cull, why on _Earth_ would you sacrifice—

Except this isn't Earth, and there's no explaining the perverted logic these people have constructed to explain why they do what they do, why this sacrifice will make John pure of spirit so he won't bring harm, so his Ancestral Blood won't bring the Wraith down upon them in spite of the glow of the High Priest's pendant that had betrayed him.

Rodney being Rodney, talking a mile a minute, yanks John and the High Priest aside and, when he learns the truth, brokers some kind of deal, whispers that they're together, that this very act that would give John purity would defile him in another way, an irreparable way, unless it's with him, it has to be Rodney who does it, and something that had gone painfully tight to the point of shredding in John's chest eases when he sees the sudden understanding in Ho'cha's eyes, finally a bending of the steel shot through his spine, and Ho'cha inclines his head, and John can breathe.

 _God._

But it still has to be done, and it's something John doesn't _do_ , not even with Rodney, not even though they've been together going on four months now. They don't play games with each other, nothing like this, and Rodney has always understood—he's got bad memories of his own—but John has no choice now.

The audience will be small, at least. Just Ho'cha and his four acolytes. Teyla is led out, her backward glances dark with alarm—she has no idea what the purification ritual will entail. Ronon is already outside, tied up in a hut and held at the point of his own blaster, something John fully hopes he'll be up to teasing him about later.

Ho'cha takes them back behind the altar area to a small room. There's a brazier there, and he throws something on it that flashes into flame, filling the air with smoky incense. Rodney bitches, but not too loudly, already afraid, John can tell. Neither of them is up for an audience, and they don't know what to expect, and John is trying not to hyperventilate looking at the waist-high, dusty frame, a strung lattice of leather, the straps dark in places as if from old sweat, and he has to swallow to keep from gagging on his own spit.

Waving his hand, Ho'cha directs him to undress, and that's when John realizes he started trembling a while back. He goes over to the side of the room, turns his back, wills it away, knowing he has to pull it together now or Rodney will know, everyone will know, and he has to switch off. But he can feel it all now like a pressure in the back of his head, the elephant in his brain, flashes of ancient memory, and he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth squeak as he strips off his tac vest, his shirt, his wrist band and his watch, his socks and boots and then, with a deep breath, his BDU pants and finally his underwear.

He's not hard. He's not hard when he turns. His hands are clenched into fists, and he looks up, feels the weight of his dog tags around his neck, the only thing he's still wearing.

For just a moment he can see Rodney, see Rodney's blue eyes staring at him in trepidation, and then Ho'cha is taking John's arm and leading him to the frame, and John's mind is a perfect, perfect blank as he sits and it tilts and he settles; perfectly blank as he lets his hands rise over his head, until he feels a hand grip his wrist, and then the cool, supple touch of leather closing around it, and suddenly his cock goes hard.

Heat floods his face and he closes his eyes. Ho'cha paints an oily symbol on his forehead and chants something. John clenches his fists, and then there's the cool brush of air as Ho'cha steps away and—

"John?"

He doesn't want to open his eyes, but that wouldn't be fair to Rodney, who has to do this thing, who has to be in this with him, so he does. He does. He opens his eyes, and Rodney is standing next to him looking at his face. Doesn't seem to have noticed that John is rock hard and aching.

 _Oh._ The acolytes are blocking the view as they bring John's knees up on either side, strange hands touching him as straps pull his thighs open. John forces himself to keep his eyes on Rodney's, praying Rodney won't try to look down. The blood is still pushing into John's head and neck; he can feel his pulse hammering in his throat, in the tips of his ears, in his cock.

But Rodney leans over him and captures his face in his hands and bends to kiss him, a desperate, frightened kiss, and John wonders if Rodney is scared he won't be able to perform.

If it weren't so horribly, horribly sick, John would laugh.

"It's okay," John says, gasping, when Rodney pulls back. "It's gonna be okay."

It really isn't.

But the kiss seems to have worked, because Rodney's face is flushed, and he pulls away to undo his pants. He's hard, and the acolytes have all spun away, robes swirling in tandem. Ho'cha is chanting something about purification of the flesh and fluids and protection against the Wraith, and he's waving something up and down that is putting out a sweet smell that's making John dizzy.

He pulls automatically at his bonds, testing them, and knows he can't move. He's trapped on his back, ass near the edge of the frame, knees up and his thighs wide open, spread for the taking. His cock throbs _hard_ , jerks upward, and almost he moans—with shame, with need, he isn't sure.

Then Rodney is there, and Ho'cha hands him a small bowl, and bows his head.

"It is time. We will witness." The five of them line up behind John. He can't see them, thank God, but he can feel them watching, see them reflected in Rodney's shaking hands, the small bowl trembling in his fingers.

"For me," John reminds him, because Rodney looks like he's about to freak.

But when Rodney looks up, his eyes travel up John's body slowly, and when they reach John's they're filled with heat. Rodney takes three steps forward, his fingers already dipping into the bowl, his rigid cock standing from the open gap in his pants, and John's hands jerk against the ties but he can't do anything, can't move, can't stop this, and then Rodney touches him. Not his ass, but his cock, gripping it with oily fingers, sliding them up and then down again, and John arches his back, helpless to move in any other way, bowing upward against his bonds. His moan is trapped in his throat, but he hears Rodney croon something encouraging, and then Rodney's fingers disappear only to come back, slithering past his balls and then sliding around his hole.

And, God, he wants it. He's wide open, spread out, desperate for it, naked, offered up for the taking as he's never wanted to be, as he's always avoided. And even as part of him cringes in desperate shame, he pants out, goddamn _pleads_ , "Do it."

Rodney's mouth is wet and open, his eyes wide, his face flushed. John sees him swallow once, and then has to close his eyes because Rodney's fingers are sliding inside of him, opening him up, those thick, strong fingers that John has fallen in love with, and it's never been so easy. He's never found it easy at all, but it is right now, and Rodney is fucking him open with those slick fingers, and John pulls against the ties, his thighs flexing as he tries to push against them for more, but he can't. He's completely at Rodney's mercy.

 _Please-please-please, oh God, Rodney, please._

As if Rodney can hear him, John is suddenly empty, and he hears a clunk as the bowl drops, and then Rodney is leaning over him, his cock sliding into place then pushing into him, inside, thrusting _in_ —"Rodney!" John cries out.

The sound resonates, followed by Rodney's moan, and Rodney's cock is hard, so goddamn hard inside John's ass, but John can't move to shift, to accommodate it, he just has to accept it, helplessly, so he does, trembling, so hard himself he's afraid he'll come just like this, right now, giving everything away.

Except he's not the only one trembling—Rodney has frozen fully inside him, his forehead resting on John's chest, and John can feel the minute tremors shaking him, as if Rodney can't bear to move. As if the second he does it will be game over—he's that turned on.

John only has a second to think about it, because Rodney seems to pull it together. He lifts his head and then grips the frame on either side of John's shoulders, making it creak and groan as he pulls back and then  
—oh, God, it rocks—as he starts to move. The fucking thing must be on subtle rockers of some kind, because with each pull, as Rodney straightens his arms, the frame tilts backward, forcing John's knees in the air and, incidentally, dragging Rodney's cock hard against his sweet spot.

The first time it happens John can barely breathe from the hot rush of pleasure. The second time, he nearly screams. The third time, he almost starts begging for Rodney to stop.

But John can't stop this. He can't do anything. He can only take it. And take it. This slow, inexorable fucking. And, God, Rodney looks so beautiful like this, his biceps working hard, his neck and face flushed, blue eyes bright. John only wishes he were naked, but he knows how shy Rodney is, and he'd never strip in front of an audience.

Christ. John had forgotten all about them. They're watching this. Watching John fall apart, give everything up. And there's nothing he can do about that, either. He's close to coming now, and Rodney hasn't laid a hand on his cock. That's another first, something Rodney's bound to notice.

But Rodney is speeding up now, staring down at John with greedy eyes, rolling his hips as he thrusts and rocks and his cock slides thickly inside John's ass, and Rodney whispers in a harsh voice, "God, you're so...like this, you're so...you're...John!" And he shoves hard and then stops, pressed warmly, solidly against John's prostate as his cock pulses—John can _feel_ it, and John squeezes his eyes shut as he starts to come himself.

The peak rises through him hard and fast, but he's bound too tightly, and there's nowhere for it to go. He twists against the straps, jerking on Rodney's still-hard cock, and gasps Rodney's name, begging, and then feels the pleasure pulsing out of him, feels his come spattering his chest and chin, the sweet ache in his balls as they clench over and over, and he whimpers and finally sinks back, limp.

He can't hear anything over the fading roar in his ears, but he's conscious of movement around him, of Rodney pulling out of his sore ass. If he could feel anything, the old shame would rise up now and smack him back to consciousness, but he's exhausted and drifting. The first thing he does feel is a sharp pain in his right wrist, and he realizes he's fucked something up there, probably from pulling against the tie. Hopefully not bad. The pain is a good thing, though, because it snaps him back to himself a little bit, and he realizes his arms are free, his legs dangling down, and someone is wiping his chest.

John reaches down and grabs at the cloth. When he opens his eyes he catches Rodney's blue ones, startled and familiar.

"Hi," Rodney says, his voice shaky. His hand is warm, and John squeezes it for a second in blind reassurance before he remembers everything. Then he looks away, and sees Ho'cha standing by the brazier. The acolytes are gone.

"We good?"

"Yes. The Gods are satisfied."

"That's just super." John's knees want to give out on him when he stands, but he manages to make his way over to his clothing. He still has the cloth in his hand that he took from Rodney, so he gives himself a quick wipe down, grimaces and runs it over the crack of his ass, heat burning his face, then proceeds to get dressed.

By the time he's done, he and Rodney are alone.

"Teyla and Ronon?" John asks. "I thought I heard Ho'cha say—"

Rodney's mouth twists. "They won't let Ronon loose until we can do it—they're afraid he'll go Rambo on them. But I saw Teyla just outside; she's okay. She's been keeping Ronon calm."

"We'd better get out there and cut him loose."

"In a second." Rodney's chin is up, which is never a good thing. "Are you...well, obviously, physically you appear to be—except, of course, with you there's never any knowing if you're bleeding internally or have ruptured an organ—"

"I'm fine. Little bit sore. No big deal."

"Oh, no big deal. I'm sure. But that—" Rodney waves at the frame, which John can't look at, which John keeps seeing out of the corner of his eye like an afterimage. Rodney nods. "Obviously, we have something to talk about, here."

"Not if we don't want to." It feels like gravel coming out of his mouth.

"What if—what if I want to?"

John's head jerks up, a flare of pain heating his neck. He hadn't really been able to think about it at the time—the heat in Rodney's eyes, the way he stared down at John, moaning words of praise. John had been stuck inside his own head, his darkest fantasy; his greatest fear.

"Oh."

"You liked it too."

"Rodney—"

"You really, _really_ —"

" _Rodney_!"

Rodney's mouth snaps shut, his eyes a little shocked. It takes John a moment to realize he's charged two steps forward, his hands balled into fists. He forces himself to stop, relaxes his hands. But there's no forcing ease into his spine, or calming the shake in his voice.

"It doesn't matter what I like. I can't."

"But—"

"And we can't talk about this now. Ronon is _tied up_ , Rodney. He must be going crazy."

Rodney nods, his lips still set stubbornly.

John takes that as a win, and they head out.

:::

John knows it, though: _you never really win with Rodney. You just earn a cease-fire._

It starts as a silent campaign. Subtle stuff, so subtle John isn't aware of it at first. When he finally notices, he starts taking note: Rodney using all his weight on top of him, holding John down. Or closing his hands around John's wrists a little too long, pinning them to the bed above his head while they're kissing.

And then one night after a game of Left4Dead— _"I find it troubling you enjoy playing Zoey with such fervor, Sheppard."_ —Rodney pushes John against the side of the bed and then stands up in front of him, begging, "Suck me?" as he unzips his uniform pants, his light-colored lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

John is a sucker for Rodney's cock. The rounded, puffy head of it peeking from the pale, frilled foreskin, the taste of it, always salty yet fresh—Rodney is freaky obsessive about hygiene, which most of the time has John shaking his head, but which he appreciates in this one case—and the thick length of it sliding down into his throat.

Most of all, John gets off on the sounds Rodney makes when he's sucking him, and the way his fingers will ruffle through the hair on John's scalp. Grabby fingers, tensing and relaxing.

John kneels up and pulls down Rodney's boxers, settling his hands on Rodney's hips while Rodney guides his cock into John's mouth. He's already half-hard—he must've been thinking about this even before he pushed John against the side of the bed—and John has to suppress a smile to keep his teeth covered before going down.

He licks and sucks, licks and sucks to get Rodney good and wet to ease the way, and then slides down, down, as far as he can go before choking, then starts to come back up again. Rodney shifts on his feet, getting his balance, pushing John back a little, and John goes with him, his butt resting against the side of the bed, and then his back when Rodney shifts further.

Sucking harder, John relaxes into it, bobbing up and down, tonguing and sucking and slurping until Rodney groans. There go the hands, sliding into John's hair, grabbing and scratching, and then sliding around behind to tilt John's head back.

The angle is surprising, and wrong, and there's nowhere to go, because the bed is behind him, and suddenly he gets it, John gets it, and he can see it—Rodney taking that one more step and leaning over him, then fucking down into his throat, with John trapped, unable to move, having to just _take_ it—with a wrench sideways John is free and breathing heavily, leaning over both hands and cursing to himself in Satedan because the image of that little fantasy is making his cock _ache_.

"What the hell!" Rodney squeaks, but he only sounds a little indignant, not the high holy hell he can raise on good day, so John knows Rodney knows he's caught out.

"We're not gonna get there that way, either, McKay. And I know it's partly my fault because I didn't want to talk about it, but that was pretty underhanded."

There's some more indignant squeaking but after a few moments Rodney crashes heavily onto the bed and says, "Yeah, I know. For what it's worth. I'm...I—" He waves his hand. "Sorry."

John grins. "Wow, with the apology and all."

"Shut up. I've got blue balls."

"Well, you're not getting a blow job; that's for sure."

John was going for the laugh, but Rodney just sighs heavily, and finally John gets up and joins him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. After a little while he waves down the lights; it's better for talking, which he figures they're going to have to do at least a little of.

"I know you don't want me to say it," Rodney starts quietly, and John lets out a grateful sigh, "but you...you really seemed to like it."

"I did," John forces himself to say. It feels like his guts are being torn out.

"So, then _why?_ " Rodney asks plaintively.

The darkness pulses behind John's eyeballs, scatters of light and color. John says the easiest part. "I don't like what it does to me. I don't like what it says about me."

There's a snorting sound next to him, and John reminds himself calmly that they need McKay or the city might implode.

"It's just sex, Sheppard. Games. It has absolutely nothing to do with who you are outside of the bedroom."

"Maybe for you."

"For _everyone_."

"Not for me."

"God, that's idiotic." Rodney is rolling his eyes so hard it's audible in the dark.

"Go tell it on the mountain, McKay."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means fuck off." John swings to the other side of the bed and puts his feet on the floor, but Rodney waves the lights back on and grabs his arm.

"Wait! Wait, okay, I didn't—not for you. I get it. Not for you. But what about me?"

"What _about_ you?" John turns his head and sees pleading blue eyes, and then gets it. God, he's such a selfish prick.

"Two halves to the equation, and I don't happen to have any hang-ups, John."

"Why should you?" John mutters. "All I could say about you is you're a control freak. Big news flash there."

He doesn't like what he sees going on behind Rodney's eyes after that—the analytical look that takes over like when McKay's taking apart a DHD or putting together an Ancient console. And John doesn't want the question he sees hovering on Rodney's lips to escape and enter the air between them, so John makes a fist, hidden beside his thigh, and says, "Compromise."

Rodney's eyes light up and he gives a crooked smile. "As in?"

"Occasional enough, light enough stuff that it won't—it won't, get to me too bad."

Rodney jumps off the bed. "Oh, this is excellent. Much more like it." He spins around. "How often? Once a week?"

John chokes. "Get serious! Once a year."

"Please. Every two weeks, then."

John narrows his eyes. "Every six months."

"Well, I can see where this is heading. Do the math."

"Every seven weeks it is, then."

"Fine. And, uh," Rodney rubs his palms together, "Activities?"

John looks away. "We could...do that thing. You wanted to do. Earlier. And that we did back on the planet. But no toys. No pain." _No making me call you 'sir.' No making me beg you to come. No treating me like a piece of shit on your shoe and acting like you're doing me a favor fucking me._

"No pain?"

John stares. "I have plenty of that in my life, Rodney. Thanks."

Rodney's chin comes up.

John rolls his eyes. "Fine, we'll try...a little. But no marks. At least, nothing that would show up in infirmary checks."

"Of course not. Do you think I want to lose you?"

John doesn't have a response to that. At least, not one that isn't embarrassingly sappy.

"And regarding toys. I agree, except for plugs and dildos." Rodney crosses his arms and John has to drag his eyes away from Rodney's biceps. "You can get a lot of mileage out of plugs and dildos."

John swallows. "Okay," he says hoarsely. "Can we stop talking now?"

"Yes," Rodney says smugly. "Except I think we should seal this agreement by finishing what we started. Tonight."

The bottom drops out of John's stomach. "No."

Rodney stops smiling. "No?"

"No, Rodney. God, didn't you hear anything I said to you?"

"But—how could you sit here and talk about all that—I mean, God, John, my nuts are going to—"

"So? We can still have sex, for Christ's sake! A good, old fashioned fucking never hurt anybody."

"Fine, then. Sex it is."

Maybe John should have expected it, but Rodney's next move would have put Teyla to shame. He's on John like white on rice, like maple syrup on pancakes, or maybe like a Canadian Physicist on a ZedPM. It takes him thirty-four point two four seconds to have John stripped down to his socks, and only another twenty-two point eight seconds to get naked himself before he flips John onto his belly. He has the lube out and his cock suited up shortly thereafter, and a finger sliding into John's ass by the time John can catch his breath. John makes a halfhearted effort to get him to slow down, but Rodney chants in his ear, "Blue balls, blue balls," and turns one finger into two, pressing hard on John's prostate, and John groans and says, "Okay, already, go, go, go."

Then Rodney is pushing in, his whole body blanketing John's, and it hurts—John's too tight still—but then Rodney's forearms bracket John's, his hands closing tight around John's wrists while he slowly starts to fuck John's ass, and he keeps kneeing John's legs wider apart, until John has no leverage at all and just has to take it, take each thrust of Rodney's cock. But Rodney isn't calling John a cock-whore like Carl did, or telling him he's a slut or trying to get him to beg; he's sobbing softly in John's ear, every so often leaning over to kiss the side of John's face, and his hands are holding John so securely, and it all feels so goddamned good that John just tips his forehead down against the mattress and groans and tightens around Rodney's cock and comes so hard he sees pulses of color behind his eyelids.

He feels Rodney coming soon afterward, and Rodney says, "John—Sheppard—John," like he can't decide who he's in bed with. It makes John smile quietly to himself, and after Rodney pulls out and fumbles with the condom, John kisses him once before saying, only a little sarcastically, "Not bad for plain old regular sex, huh?"

Rodney freezes, then looks a little sheepish. But it's cool, John thinks; or, at least, he's pretty sure it will be.

He just has to trust in Rodney. And after all they've been through, John is starting to think that's something he can do.

Even with this. Maybe even with this.

  
 _End._   



End file.
